The Teacher’s Continuation

While visiting the land of Aloha, I wrote a poem to Dear Thich Nhat Hanh, who is one of my teacher’s, and now a spiritual ancestor. It’s been 2 years since his passing, January 21 in the USA and January 22 in Vietnam, his country of origin.

January 21, 2024
©2024 Karla Johnston InnerConstellation.com

Hawaii, wake up:
moisture-sky, rain droplets and rooster calls.
Good morning, Dear Thay,*

Two years since your passing.
Beloved teacher, I bow to you.
Feeling the quality of my teacher’s breathing

In…and out…as driving to the temple, I park,

grateful for the auspicious timing of the visit.

Kwan Yin statue ~ golden, monstrous, garish.

Bows, incense offerings,
bows, fake money aflame for prosperity,
bows, an old mangy Tom Cat batting around his empty dish,

not too hungry for affection, we greet, rub, bump.

I walk next door to Foster Botanical Gardens,
to a Bodhi tree, a descendant of the tree of enlightenment.

A gifted branch, planted by Mary Foster.
Its green heart-shaped leaves quiver and shine.
I bow my head to my ancestors, to the care and tending of Mary Foster,
to the tall, sprawling green-armed bodhisattva, entirely alive.

Self-tour of ancient trees, numbers 1-21.
Number 18 remains allusive,
even after persistent returning again and again to the map.
Undiscovered, Doum Palm, an early relative that produced fruit found in King Tut’s tomb,
a prized specimen, largest in the U.S.

I sit beneath the Bodhi Tree,
breathing-in enlightenment…
breathing-out, poetry.

Then, I pack it up, and walk back to the temple, to a still-hungry cat,
who is now mewing his unhappiness.
I sit beside him, offer my condolences,
consider if he would share the banana I have in my backpack.
A temple tender opens the door next to us
and we produce the most sorrowful expressions we can muster.

She smiles and comes back with a bag of Meow Mix.

All of us are entirely dependent on a multitude of kindnesses:
a Bodhi tree, an ancient Egyptian fruit,
the hands that feed us, our dear teachers,

If we think that’s the only magic,

the point is missed.

I offer a single stick of incense, watch the cat hum happily,
drop a donation in the jar,

walk to my friend’s borrowed car and start the engine.

Every single thing encountered, is sacred—

a vehicle, an inspiration, a holy persistence,

and we are their continuation.

*Thay – Vietnamese for ‘teacher,’ in this instance Thich Nhat Hanh